A Teacher and a Housemaid
by Shivver
Summary: Stories about John Smith and Martha Jones at the Farringham School for Boys, written using the prompts from the fanfic100 LiveJournal community.
1. 90: Home

**Author's Note:**

I'm using the prompt list from fanfic100 (on LiveJournal) and selecting a topic by rolling a d100. This has evolved into stories specifically about the Farringham School for Boys before the events in "Human Nature" and "Family of Blood," mostly focusing on John Smith and Martha Jones.

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Prompt #90: Home

When the motor-car came to a stop in front of the school, the driver jumped out and circled around to open the door for the new schoolteacher. A tall man wearing a fedora, he cocked his head up to keep an eye on the edge of the cloth roof as he stepped out. He turned to fetch his personal bag on the seat, but the driver stopped him. "I'll get that, sir. You go on. The headmaster will be in his office."

"Good man, Ames. Thank you." He took a few steps towards the building, then stopped to get a good look at the school grounds. An old, worn complex, obviously a converted manor, it was nevertheless neatly kept: the lawns were carefully manicured and the main circular driveway was clear of weeds and debris, a British flag flapping on a pole in the grassy center. The military bent of the school was evident, as through an archway, he could see a wide lawn with targets set up for shooting practice in the distance. The Farringham School for Boys had a fine reputation, and this appointment was going to be a good opportunity for him.

"Come, Martha. We mustn't keep the headmaster waiting," he called without looking back, and strode towards the entrance of the school.

"Yes, Mr. Smith. Coming, sir." Mr. Smith's dark-skinned maid had climbed out of the motor-car after the footman had retrieved the bags in the passenger compartment. She straightened and dusted off her coat, then trotted to catch up to her master, staying respectfully behind him as they entered.

The interior of the school was far richer than the outside, its marble floors, brass fixtures, and mahogany paneling gleaming, even with its daily trample of schoolboys. Martha spotted a pair of maids scrubbing the floor in a corridor off the main hallway and sighed inwardly; she expected she would be them tomorrow. She reminded herself that this wasn't permanent, and that she was doing this for a very good reason.

After a polite inquiry, a boy escorted the newcomers to the headmaster's office. Mr. Smith knocked lightly on the door and was beckoned in by a gruff male voice.

"Headmaster Rocastle?" Mr. Smith's tone was tentative as he pushed open the door.

"Ah, yes. You must be Mr. Smith. Welcome to Farringham." The headmaster rose from his chair behind the desk and extended his hand in greeting. Removing his hat, Mr. Smith stepped forward and gripped his hand firmly, smiling in greeting. Martha noticed that Mr. Rocastle, a stern but handsome man in his early fifties, did not return that smile. She saw his eyes flick over Mr. Smith, critically appraising the younger man's appearance - personal grooming, style of traveling coat he wore, even the length of his sleeves - then turned their attention to her for a momentary appraisal. Though his expression did not change, she knew that she hadn't passed his standards. "Please sit down."

Mr. Smith seated himself in one of the chairs in front of the desk. Martha knew she should remain standing near the door. "Thank you for sending your car to bring us from the railway station, headmaster. It was a luxury that I did not expect."

"There was no reason for you to hire a coach here. You made good time. You should have plenty of time to situate yourself before the evening meal. Ames will have your trunks taken to your apartments." The headmaster picked up a paper from his desk and glanced at it. "Your credentials are impeccable. Honors at the University of Birmingham. A fine record at King Edward's School. Why did you decide to come to this tiny village?"

Mr. Smith stuttered a bit. "Oh, uh, I decided I had enough of the city. A smaller town and a good school. With a good history curriculum and a strong military tradition."

The headmaster nodded and put down the paper. "The school is delighted to have you, Mr. Smith. You will, of course, be expected to uphold the credit and reputation of this institution. You should start first with your appearance." His eyes fixed on Mr. Smith's hair, the top of which was long and flyaway.

Mr. Smith's voice squeaked in confusion. "I'm sorry?" He followed Mr. Rocastle's eyes and clapped his hand to his crown to feel the state of his hair. "Oh! It must be the travelling, sir. I assure you, my hair does not normally stand on end." Martha kept her face carefully neutral, though her eyes danced with laughter.

"See that it doesn't. So, who is this servant you have brought with you?" Again, the disdainful eyes raked across Martha.

Mr. Smith rose to his feet. "This is Martha. She's served my family for years, and she's my responsibility now. I had hoped to find her a position here at the school. She is a hard worker and most faithful." Martha said nothing, but tried her best to look eager and dependable. She needed to stay close to Mr. Smith, and she could only do that by working at the school.

"We have all the servants we need already, Mr. Smith."

"Could there be room for just one more, please, sir? She has been faithful to my family for years, but I cannot afford to keep a personal servant."

Mr. Rocastle set his jaw. It was obvious to Martha that he didn't care one jot about her, but he wanted to keep his new schoolteacher happy. "I cannot afford another servant, but I can afford half a servant. If you can pay for the rest of her keep, she can be your personal servant and spend the rest of her time serving the school."

"Yes, sir, I can do that. Thank you, sir." Mr. Smith bowed.

In her relief, Martha blurted, "Thank you very much, sir!"

The headmaster glared at her in surprise. "Mr. Smith. You will keep your servant under control."

"Yes, sir." He shot a reprimanding glance at Martha, and she stepped back, bowing her head contritely. She kept her silence, but the thoughts running through her head were less than polite.

"You should go set yourself up. And have one of the boys show her to the servants' quarters. She'll have a bed and uniform there. Welcome to Farringham, Mr. Smith." The two men shook hands, and Martha followed Mr. Smith out into the hallway.

"There. That wasn't bad." Mr. Smith deposited his hat back on his head and smiled warmly at Martha. "I told you I would look out for you. Shall we go find my apartments?"

. _ . _ . _ . _ .

The school was a maze of twisting corridors and steep staircases, but they found Mr. Smith's apartments with the help of one of the maids, a girl named Jenny. They consisted of a large office, with a sleeping area and a fine fireplace, and a book room. His trunk and bags were piled near the door.

"This looks too grand for me." Stooping to pick up his bag, he strode over to the window. "This prospect is splendid. I can see for miles from here. And the sky! At night, I am sure, the stars will be brilliant."

Martha dragged the trunk across the room to the desk near the window. She tried to pop open the main clasp, but it was locked. "May I have the key to your trunk, sir?" When he didn't answer her, she looked up at him. He was staring out of the window at the sky, seemingly lost in a daydream. She bit her lip. They had only been travelling for less than a day now, since he'd chosen to change and hide, and he already did this a lot, got lost within himself. Was he remembering? Was he missing the man he had been? She didn't know: when she had asked him what he was dreaming about, either he didn't know or he wasn't sharing it with her.

She went to his side and asked him quietly, "Mr. Smith?"

"Oh. Yes?" He was confused.

"May I have the key to your trunk, sir?"

"Oh, certainly!" He unbuttoned his coat, then patted the pockets of his jacket, then waistcoat, then trousers. "Ah, here it is." He fished it out of his trouser pocket and handed it to her. As she returned to the trunk, he removed his coat and hat and hung them on the stand near the door. He then pulled out his fob watch, unclipped the chain, and dropped it on the nearest surface, which happened to be a bookshelf in the book room.

Martha immediately darted over and picked it up. "Oh, sir, let's put that watch in a safe place. How about on the mantle?" She crossed over to the fireplace to choose a place for it.

"Hm? What watch?" His eyes were unfocused as he looked at her, and after blinking a few times, he shook his head and began unpacking his bag.

Mr. Smith didn't have many belongings and it didn't take the pair of them very long to unpack everything and arrange the room. They stood back and surveyed their handiwork.

"Excellent! This is everything I could want. It already feels more like home than anywhere I have ever been. This will be a splendid new life for me." His eyes shone with a contentment that Martha had never seen before.

He circled around the desk and picked up a piece of paper. "Oh, and my class schedule is here. Three classes tomorrow. I shall have my evening filled, preparing for them." He placed it back on the desk and tapped it twice. "I'll be wanting my breakfast and my tea here, and you'll need to tidy up every day, and laundry, of course. And then you'll have your duties to the school. You should probably get yourself situated now. Thank you, Martha."

"You're welcome, sir." She curtsied but before she left the room, she looked back at Mr. Smith, who had picked up a book and had already forgotten she was there. She leaned against the door and contemplated her future of scrubbing floors, serving arrogant boys, and protecting Mr. Smith. This wasn't going to be a good time for her. He had found his home, his happiness, but it all depended on her.

She could do this; she could and would do anything for him. He had to hide for three months, and at the end of those three months, she would tell Mr. Smith to open the watch. The Doctor would return and she would be free. Her eyes shining with the memory of the Doctor, she closed Mr. Smith's door and headed downstairs to her new home.


	2. 39: Taste

**Author's Note**:

This is a drabble. I've never done a drabble before.

For this to make any sense, you need to be familiar with the full recording of the Doctor's instructions to Martha in "Human Nature," not just the one shown in the episode. You can find it on YouTube.

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Duster in hand, Martha pushed the door open just as Mr. Smith reached into the bowl and selected a fruit.

"Oh! Sir! Let me take that for you!"

Mr. Smith stared at her. "Whatever for, Martha?"

"You don't like pears. You told me to never let you eat one."

"When did I do that? I love pears. This harvest has been splendid. Thank you for bringing them."

"No! Don't!" But she was too late. He bit into the juicy green fruit, smiled, and toasted her with it.

Martha sighed, wincing to herself. _He's going to hate me in two months_.


	3. 34: Not Enough

It amazed Martha how dirty a room could get in just one day. Her duties as Mr. Smith's maid were the same every day: bring him breakfast, set out his clothing, clean up his apartments (an office with a bed and a book room) once he left to teach his classes, bring him his tea in the afternoon, clean up his tea things, and turn down the bed and build up the fireplace in the evenings. And then once a week, do his laundry. It didn't sound like much when she signed up for it, because how much of a mess could one bachelor teacher make? Apparently quite a bit. She didn't realise he would be a product of his time and circumstances, the younger son of a genteel family, used to having servants and not noticing how much work he might be creating for her. He cared not if he scattered his papers about or left half of his hundreds of books piled on the table. He was absent-minded, which meant she might find a half-eaten apple drying out on a bottom shelf of the book room, and he was clumsy, as evidenced by the ink spill across the mahogany desk that she was currently scrubbing. To top it off, the infuriating man had left the ink to dry on the desk for a couple of hours before telling her. This was only the fifth day of her three-month tenure of serving as his maid. Her duties serving the school required more menial work and she knew she was lucky to have part of the day for the light work of serving Mr. Smith, but she swore, once the three months were over, she was going to let him have it.

The soapy water in her small pail was nearly black, so, grabbing it, she headed downstairs to the kitchens to refresh it. Upon returning, she was surprised to find the door to Mr. Smith's office wide open. The voices of two men drifted into the hallway.

"No, I do not see that any of these books are written in Latin." That was Mr. Smith's familiar tenor voice, speaking in a slow, pleasant, formal accent that Martha still found strange to her ears. "I daresay that it has been many decades, possibly centuries, since history lessons were conducted in Latin, anywhere in the kingdom."

"Oh, I'm not looking to teach in Latin." Martha didn't recognise the second speaker; she had so far met only two of the school's other teachers. "I believe that if a student can read something important in Latin, if he can engage with the subject matter, he will find the language itself will be learned much more easily. Much better than simply memorising words and tenses." _Must be the languages teacher_, she thought. She had not even seen him yet, as far as she knew.

"That is a fascinating concept, Hawkins. Using one subject to teach another. I should expect that the pupil, whilst reading in Latin, shall also find it easier to learn the history."

Although she was supposed to be cleaning the ink splotch, Martha knew what she'd be expected to do, with a guest in the room, and, depositing her soapy pail just outside the history teacher's door, she turned to run back downstairs.

Martha returned to Mr. Smith's room in ten minutes, carrying tea for two on a tray. Balancing it all on one hand, she knocked on the open door.

Standing in the book room with the other teacher, Mr. Smith turned towards her. "Come in." Seeing the tea things, he smiled approvingly. "Splendid, Martha! Care for some tea, Hawkins?" He nodded at his maid and his eyes flicked at the small table near the fireplace, where she was to deposit the tray.

"Yes, please. Thank you." Mr. Hawkins was a younger man with short sandy hair, a wide, freckled face, and enthusiastic gray eyes. Like Mr. Smith and all the other teachers at the Farringham School for Boys, he wore black academic robes over his suit. Mr. Smith motioned his fellow faculty member to one of the nearby chairs, then, after Mr. Hawkins had sat down, took his own seat on the other side of the table. Martha began pouring the tea as the men selected pastries.

"Please excuse the use of this awkward table. I had a bit of an accident with the inkwell this morning and my desk is currently quite sopping." Though embarrassed, Mr. Smith grinned at the humor of the situation.

"This is perfectly adequate." As Martha retrieved the pail and returned to scrubbing the ink stain, Mr. Hawkins resumed the interrupted conversation. "So, do you think that we could introduce some history readings in Latin?"

"I don't see why not," Mr. Smith replied after swallowing a bite of scone. Though I will have to beg your help. I don't know if I could write essays in proper Latin."

"I can certainly proofread your work. How much Latin do you know?"

Mr. Smith didn't answer right away, and the pause in the conversation made Martha look up at him. Teacup halfway to his mouth, he was staring at nothing, confusion on his face. "I don't rightly know."

Mr. Hawkins gave a short laugh. "Well, you must have studied some."

"Yes, I'm sure I did." Mr. Smith had that look on his face that Martha had seen far too many times in the last few days, when he started trying to remember something and got lost within himself. However, before Martha decided to try to help Mr. Smith, Mr. Hawkins spoke again.

Martha understood some of what he said only because of the number of Latin terms she'd had to learn in medical school, and she realised that with Mr. Smith hidden the way he was, the TARDIS' telepathic translator must not be working for her. Mr. Smith immediately answered, and while Martha continued her scrubbing, the two men shared a couple of minutes' conversation before returning to English.

Mr. Hawkins was wide-eyed in amazement. "Your Latin is impeccable! I've not heard such perfect grammar since I last spoke with my professor at university."

Mr. Smith seemed pleased, if still a bit confused. "I suppose I did study some."

"Such modesty! Your only true difficulty is pronunciation. With the strange way you pronounce the letters, I had some problems understanding you."

"Well." Mr. Smith drawled the word, then the next sentences burst from him. "Phonemes will shift, over the years, between groups of people, even due to geographical barriers. A language can sound completely different in just a century." The speed of his words and the shift in accent made Martha freeze her work in concern, and she dropped her rag and wiped her hands on her skirt. "Spoke like this with Pliny the Elder. Well, he was just Pliny at the time; his nephew hadn't been born yet."

Martha noted Mr. Hawkins' confusion as she darted over to the two men. "Mr. Smith, sir, shall I refresh your tea?" She distracted both men with the process of topping off their cups.

"Ah, yes, thank you, Martha." His speech was back to schoolteacher-normal.

Mr. Hawkins had obviously decided to dismiss the strange episode. "You have the most interesting sense of humor, Smith. I think, however, as long as we keep you to the writing and away from the speaking, there shouldn't be any problems. If you are willing, let us toast to our success!" They clinked teacups together and sipped. "I must say, you are a breath of fresh air after Davenport. He wouldn't even entertain the idea that there could be other methods of teaching."

Martha returned to the ink spill as Mr. Smith replied. "One must keep an open mind. We are shaping a whole new generation of fine young men, after all."

"Exactly! Farringham is fantastically lucky to have got you, Smith. With Davenport suddenly leaving less than a month into the school year, we had thought all the talented teachers to be employed and that we would only have the unemployable as applicants. And to have you apply and arrive at the school only three days after we'd advertised the position!" He leaned forward over the table. "If I may ask, how did you come to be available for employment at such an odd time?"

Continuing to scrub, Martha glanced up at Mr. Smith, and she could see the confusion setting in again. What was wrong? The TARDIS had given him an identity, as an experienced boys' school teacher. Why couldn't he answer such a simple question? Then it hit her: he had an identity, but no life, no history, no memory. As a person, from birth until seven days ago, Mr. Smith was a blank slate except for a few fabricated "facts." He wouldn't be able to answer this question, and she hoped she could creditably fill in the holes.

"Oh, Mr. Smith," she interjected as she dropped the rag and bustled over to the table. "I'm sorry! You told me to remind you to write to your brother once you settled in here." She bobbed a curtsey to Mr. Hawkins. "You see, sir, his brother had taken ill during the summer. Almost died, he did, and Mr. Smith had to return to Nottingham to look after him. He got better, but too slow for Mr. Smith to return to his old school." She glanced at Mr. Smith and she could actually see, in his expression, his mind filling in the flesh around the skeleton of Martha's invention.

"Yes, this posting came at just the right time for me. Another two months without income and I would have had to rely on Tom's kindness. Quite embarrassing at this time of life. I certainly would not have been able to keep Martha." He smiled up at her, and she curtseyed and returned to her work.

"Well, as I said, we are lucky to have you. I think this project will turn out very well." Mr. Hawkins stood and bowed. "Thank you for the tea. Let us start working on this next week, shall we?"

Mr. Smith stood up as well. "Yes. I am looking forward to it, Hawkins." They shook hands, and Mr. Hawkins took his leave.

As Martha finished removing the ink spot from the desk's surface, Mr. Smith gathered his lecture notes and textbooks for his next class, humming idly to himself. When he finally left, Martha plopped down in the desk chair and sighed loudly. There was no way Mr. Smith could keep up this charade, if he was unable to fabricate the answers to personal questions on the fly. Someone would eventually notice that he didn't seem to know anything about himself, and even if they couldn't uncover the truth about him, they could investigate him, maybe discover that there never was a John Smith who graduated from the University of Birmingham and taught at King Edward's School. Or they might simply toss him into an asylum.

Martha yanked open the top drawer of the desk and pulled out some paper, then wet a pen with ink. If he couldn't create his own life, she could. At least the basics. Then she'd have a consistent story to use when he got into trouble. She couldn't watch him all the time, but she'd be ready when she could, and perhaps, when they were alone together, she could seed him with bits and pieces that he could work with. Scribbling quickly, she spent the next fifteen minutes creating an outline, inventing friends, noting down events - the biography of John Smith. When she'd used all the time she could spare from her duties, she hid it in a place away from everyone's eyes: behind his bed, a place only a maid would look. She'd return to it later, when she could. The Doctor had charged her with protecting him, and she was finding that the job required far more resourcefulness and foresight than she'd expected. But she was learning, and she wouldn't fail him.


	4. 19: White

Another drabble.

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The maid swiped a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, soap dripping down her cheek. She scrubbed the shirt down the washboard five more times before dunking it in the pail of clean water with the others. Swish, squeeze, empty, and pump more icy water. Repeat, at least three more times. On the last rinse, a cupful of bluing. Mr. Smith would get an earful from the headmaster if his shirts weren't shining white.

The week's laundry took her five hours. Martha vowed to never again complain about the laundromat a block away from her apartment.


End file.
